


Hammer Through Daisies

by poetikat



Series: And Death Shall Have No Dominion [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, M/M, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:42:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetikat/pseuds/poetikat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years post-epilogue, Kurt, Dave, and Santana try to give the lecture that no one wants to hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hammer Through Daisies

Kurt waits for Dave to cross the stage back to them, the worm of anxiety in his stomach flipping into a thread of impatience and back again at a rate he can’t keep up with. At his side, Santana looks perfectly composed, but the rapid tap of the toe of her high heeled shoe against the floorboards gives her away. It could be worse. They both took a Valium an hour ago, and it’s taking the edge off the stress of being even on the outskirts of a large city.

It’s Santana’s second since they left France for their overnight trip to Glasgow. It’s Kurt’s third.

Dave pulls Kurt to his feet when he reaches the chairs, and under the cover of the applause shaking the enormous hall he puts his lips to Kurt’s ear and says, “And now for the shock and awe.”

Kurt shivers at the sensation of warm breath against his skin. He’d much rather be back in their room in the guesthouse outside the city than here onstage. Spending the evening in bed together and then snuggling on the couch in the living room with Santana is a far more preferable option than giving their first ever talk to over a thousand idiots who only came to get some sort of secondhand thrill out of other people’s horrific experiences. But they’d agreed that if the curiosity hadn’t died down by the time they were as recovered as they were liable to get, then they’d give one and do their absolute best to keep anyone else from ever requesting a lecture from them again.

“Leave no one standing,” Kurt replies, and Dave grins.

“Knock ‘em dead.”

He wants to just call the whole thing off, kiss Dave and grab Santana’s hand and get out of here. He settles for squeezing Dave’s forearm and walking over to the chair next to the podium that has thus far gone unoccupied. He takes the microphone from its holder in the podium, sits down, and waits for the applause to fade. Eventually it dies down, and Kurt looks out across their audience with a flat, unemotional gaze. It still comes easily to him despite not having been his default expression for quite a while. The audience doesn’t know that, though, and their plan for the lecture involves playing up all the worst aspects of their behavior.

When Santana had spoken about necessary supplies, she’d gone on at length about guns, bullets, and knives with relish until she could see queasiness on the faces in the front rows. Dave’s description of their journey across the country and the ocean had driven home the misery, grief, and losses they’d shared, leaving the audience shifting in their seats with a vague sense of guilt for even wanting to ask.

Now it’s Kurt’s turn. Leave no man standing.

He doesn’t bother introducing himself or making opening remarks, simply turning on the camera beside his chair that looks out into the audience. The image is projected up onto a huge screen behind him so that everyone in the hall can see themselves as well as the stage. “This performance hall seats one thousand, one hundred and forty two people,” he says, “And every seat is filled. Stand up.”

A low murmur of confusion fills the hall, but everyone stands without questioning the instruction.

“Seventy five percent of you have turned into zombies,” Kurt says. “Everyone in the orchestra section may sit. Everyone but the back right six in the left wing may sit.”

The murmur of confusion swells. People exchange bewildered glances. “Sit down,” Kurt says again, and the sections he singled out retake their seats. “Many of you are caught off guard, or you’re elderly, ill, have poor reflexes, or are trapped – a further fifteen percent of the total population is now dead within hours. Everyone in the first balcony and the remaining six in the left wing may sit. The first row and the half of the second row closest to the stage may also sit.”

Unease begins to replace the confusion as the next group sits. Kurt gestures to the screen behind him as he stares out at the crowd. “This leaves one hundred and fifteen of you,” he says, pointing to the fifteen left in the right wing and the hundred in the second balcony. “Congratulations. You’ve survived the first day.”

He doesn’t need to look at Dave and Santana to know how they’re behaving. Santana is probably looking politely attentive, her legs crossed at her knees demurely, fighting laughter with every ounce of willpower she has. Dave is leaning forward, elbows braced on knees, nodding along seriously, face straight but unable to keep the corner of his mouth from twitching.

It’s deadly serious, and they know it, but that doesn’t mean they can’t take a little pleasure in what will hopefully be their first and last lecture.

“Eighty of you are unprepared,” Kurt says. “You didn’t find the guns Santana told you that you need, you don’t have cash instead of a card, your car is too small, you don’t have enough food. Everyone left in the right wing and in the left and right sections of the second balcony may sit. The first five people in the back row of the middle section may sit as well.” He waits until they’ve all taken a seat and continues. “Now there are thirty five of you. Fifteen of you will delude yourselves into thinking you’re heroes. You’re going to try to rescue everyone. You’ll give away supplies you need to give other people a fighting chance at survival. You’ll run into a crowd of zombies on foot with nothing but a handgun to rescue a single person. You’re also dead. The rest of the back row may sit.”

The audience, both seated and unseated, seems torn between watching him and watching the screen with growing apprehension.

“A further fifteen of you will be unable to think of anything but getting back at the zombies for your losses,” Kurt says. “Like the people inclined to stupid heroics, you’ll put yourselves into dangerous situations with no regard to your own safety simply to kill as many zombies as you possibly can. You’re dead, too. Everyone but the last five in the front row may sit.” He points up at the remaining audience members on their feet, and a spotlight tracks his motion. “And now there are five. Two of you will decide it will be easier to survive if you rob other survivors of their supplies instead of scavenging for food and supplies yourselves. This will work for a very, _very_ short period of time. Then you’ll hold up the wrong person and get yourselves killed. The next two people over may sit.”

The concert hall is dead silent. Behind him, Santana clears her throat quietly. It’s the loudest sound in the building.

“And then there are you three,” Kurt says. “Two of you will somehow manage to hole up somewhere, living hand to mouth and hoping desperately that eventually you’ll be rescued. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that you won’t be, so the next one over may sit.” The last two standing, a young man and a middle-aged woman, look down at Kurt in dread. “Which leaves us with the very last one of you. You escape the waking nightmare of your country being overrun by zombies and turned into a scene straight out of a post-apocalyptic horror film to reach safety. What now?” He taps his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s assume, for a moment, that you aren’t suddenly internationally famous and have the support of an entire nation’s government to ensure your safe recovery. Instead you end up in an overcrowded refugee camp, traumatized and stricken with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. You go crazy, or you kill yourself.”

The woman makes to sit, and Kurt holds up a hand to stop her. “But on the chance that the best possible outcome occurs, and you do have the support structure and deep pockets of others to aid in your recovery, you will never be the same. You’ll have panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares – days you can’t do anything but cry, days you wish you were dead. Parked cars scare you. Cities terrify you. You’ll stockpile nonperishable food in your basement and buy yourself the largest passenger car on the market, just in case it happens again. You’ll need to get special dispensation from whatever university accepts you to do distance learning for every course. And when you’re finally able to leave the only place you feel safe enough to really relax so that you can give speeches to people who can’t seem to understand how truly hellish such an experience is, well.” He pulls a little prescription bottle from his pants pocket and holds it up, rattling it close to the microphone. “It will take you a few Valium to pull it off.” He waves his hand dismissively at the man and woman still standing. “Sit down. Don’t worry, you’re still alive.”

He puts the bottle back in his pocket and looks around at the nervous faces dispassionately. “If you’re going to be one of the last two standing, or even the last three, you cannot be generous. If you’re going in one direction and a friend is going in another, you can’t share your supplies with that friend if you want to stay alive. The only thing that matters is getting to safety as quickly as you can with as few run-ins with zombies as possible. You can’t care about anyone but yourself and the people with you. You have to be able to adapt in whatever way is necessary, whether it’s mentally, physically, or emotionally. You have to be willing to do things that no one in their right mind would do in a normal situation. You may have to do things and behave in ways that will make you absolutely hate yourself once you’re safe.

“My sister explained the importance of various supplies and the best ones to get,” he says. “My –” Boyfriend? Partner? Lover? Family? They all fall so short of the mark. “My Dave told you why we made the decisions we did when it came to planning our escape. It’s my job to tell you why the vast majority of you will die anyway. The fact that a few of our friends from our hometown survived as well is such a wild outlier that it’s a statistician’s worst nightmare. We fought for our lives tooth and nail, and we got lucky. Every single decision we made, every hour of every day, every bullet we spent, every stop we made at a gas station, every bottle of water we drank, every meal we cut in half to save food, all led us to safety. If even one of those choices had been different we wouldn’t be here to give all of you the vicarious thrill you came to get this evening.

“You want to live? Be fast. Be prepared. Be selfish. And if you value the thought of having even a scrap of sanity left when it’s over, don’t do it by yourself.” He falls silent, waiting until their nervousness slides into outright worry, and then says, “Any questions?”

They stare back at him in what he can only assume is mute horror. “In that case,” Kurt says, “Thank you for your time, good night, and drive safely.” He gets out of the chair, puts the microphone back in its holder at the podium, and exits stage right, Dave and Santana close behind. The applause doesn’t start until they’re already backstage.

“That was awesome," Dave says. He leans in to give him the kiss he’s wanted since they took the stage forty-five minutes ago, and Kurt has to wrap his hand around the back of Dave’s neck to keep from swaying at how incredibly, unbelievably tempting it is to just stay there for the next century without parting. He pulls away reluctantly and takes a step back, trailing his fingers down Dave’s shoulder to the back of his hand.

He takes a second to recall what Dave said and nods. “It was, wasn’t it? Short and to the point.”

“That better work,” Santana says, sliding an arm around Kurt’s waist. “If they come back for more then they’re either braver or stupider than I thought.”

“I don’t think anyone’s gonna want to sit through Kurt’s contribution to the lecture again,” Dave says. “And it’s not like they’ll ever get just Santana and me. We don’t do the ‘scare them shitless’ part as well as you do.”

“Package deal,” Santana says. She rests her head on Kurt’s shoulder and snags Dave’s belt to pull him closer. “Speaking of which: ‘my Dave’?”

“I’m possessive. And I couldn’t think of a good enough descriptor,” Kurt says. “Can you?”

She laughs and starts to drag them to the exit where their car and escort are waiting. “Boyfriend? Lover? I’d say brother, but it’s creepy and it breaks Puck’s rule.”

“Ah, yes. Everyone’s your sibling unless you’re sleeping together,” Kurt says. He shoots Dave a quick, suggestive smile over Santana’s head and receives a heated look in return. “And not in the euphemistic sense of the word.”

“I’m going to non-euphemistically not sleep with you tonight,” Santana says. “You have that look in your eyes.”

Dave shakes his head and smiles down at her. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do,” she says. “It’s the one that says you’re both thinking about euphemistically sleeping together.”

They clatter down the stairs together, and Kurt opens the side door for them. Their escort, a pale, rawboned man on loan from the SCDEA for the two days they’re here in Glasgow, is waiting for them right outside the car only a few yards away. “Good speech?” he asks, holding open the back door.

“Brought the house down,” Santana says. “They were glued to their seats.”

Dave snickers and gets in the car. Kurt and Santana slide in after him. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Back to the house?” their driver asks once their escort is back in the passenger seat.

“As fast as you can,” Kurt says. It doesn’t matter that the concert hall is closer to the edge of Glasgow than the center. He just wants to be clear of it completely.

They’re pulling out of the parking structure when Kurt’s cell phone rings. He flips it open and presses the speakerphone button automatically. “Puck, weren’t you going to wait for us to call you? For all you knew, we could have been on stage answering a bunch of inane questions.”

“No offense,” Dave says quickly to the two men up front.

“None taken,” their driver says.

“We already knew you were done,” Puck informs them. “Some journalist was liveblogging your lecture. You didn’t stay for the applause?”

“What the hell would make you think we’d possibly want to stay for that?” Santana asks.

“Good point,” he says. “Anyway, I just thought you should hear it from us, but –”

“You screwed yourselves big time,” Laurent interrupts. “That journalist was gushing.”

Dave leans in closer. “I think I didn’t hear you right, because I swear you just said the journalist was gushing.”

“She said it was riveting,” Puck says, obnoxiously cheerful. “The most real experience she’s had in years.”

“It made her feel so alive,” Lauren adds.

“Crap.” Kurt massages his temples as a headache starts to build.

“So basically, our collective personal inbox has already gotten three email requests for more of the same in the past few minutes,” Puck says. “Everyone wants to get scared to death by the ‘ _Don Quixote_ Three.’”

“Don’t even say that out loud, you ass,” Santana says. “It’s nauseating.”

“Just get home already,” Lauren says. “Sarah wants girl time with you, and Mom won’t stop cleaning the kitchen.”

“Tell them we’ll be back before dinner tomorrow,” Kurt says. “And can’t you distract them?”

“We’ll try,” Puck says. “But you know they worry.”

“We miss you too,” Santana says. “Go hug Sarah for me.”

“See you soon,” Lauren says. “Try not to get more famous before you come home.”

“Night,” Dave says, and he takes the phone from Kurt and ends the call. “Well, fuck me.”

“I don’t need to hear about what you get up to in bed,” Santana says. “But yeah. Fuck.”

“I love people,” Kurt says. “They’re wonderful. They’re just the greatest.”

Santana slips her shoulder strap off and lies across Kurt’s lap, using Dave’s leg as a pillow. “How fast can you get us to the guest house?” she asks. “I need an ibuprofen and a paracetamol, stat.”

“Make that two of us,” Kurt says. He runs his fingers through Santana’s hair and rests his head on Dave’s shoulder. “My head is pounding.”

“Funny,” Dave says. “I just want a beer.”

“Mom’s rule,” Santana says. “No drinking to deal with stress.”

“There has to be an exception for when a cunning plan backfires this bad,” Dave says. He takes over gently rubbing Kurt’s temples for him. “I’m serious.”

“I have a new us-specific rule,” Kurt says. “Sex is a great stress reliever.”

“Again, don’t want to hear it,” Santana says. She arches into his hand like a cat and says, “Keep doing that.”

“As you wish,” Kurt says. “God, I hate this. I had better get credit from the university for it.”

“University of Glasgow, ‘riveting’ speech in Glasgow?” Santana says. “If this doesn’t count toward something in your text and communication course, I’ll be surprised.”

“Mm-hmm.” He leans in a little closer to Dave and takes a deep breath, willing his headache to abate. “How much longer?”

“About half an hour,” the driver says. “Just sit tight, alright? We’ll be there soon.”

Soon is such a relative term. But although Kurt’s too keyed up and alert to anything unusual outside of the car to really relax, he shuts his eyes, lets the lingering effects of the Valium he took earlier take hold, and tries not to think about just how many invitations for speaking engagements will be in their inbox when they get home tomorrow.

The only two schools of philosophy he’s really interested in studying for his degree are probability and pragmatism. But somewhere in one of the year two classes next year he’s bound to find out which school of philosophy believes that all people are idiots.


End file.
